“Mhm.” I chewed the last bit of it.
“I brought you another one if you’re still hungry.”
My eyes went wide. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. What’d you have for dinner last night?” he asked.
“I don’t remember.” I bit into the taco.
“My wife made a pot roast. She makes the creamiest mashed potatoes. Do you like pot roast?”
I peered at him and shrugged.
“You don’t know if you like pot roast?”
“I don’t know what that is.” Grease from the taco dripped on my shirt. I’d clean it, but I didn’t have a napkin. It didn’t matter because I wore the same shirt every Tuesday. Mom called it my Taco Tuesday shirt. It was covered in orangish-red stains.
“Oops, you dripped onto your shirt.” Principle Bay left and came back seconds later with a paper towel. “Here you go.”
“It’s okay,” I told him. “I eat like a pig.”
“Why would you say that?” He looked at me funny.
“That’s what my mom says.” I shrugged and went back to eating my taco.
“Interesting. What’s your favorite kind of pizza?”
I thought for a second as I chewed, then shrugged. I didn’t have a favorite. I’d only had the cheese pizza at school. Mom bought one with a bunch of meat on special occasions, like Christmas. It wasn’t my favorite, but I ate it.
“Oh, come on. You gotta have a favorite. There’s plain cheese, pepperoni, or one that has everything called combination. That’s my favorite.”
“Yeah, I like that one too,” I lied to make him stop bugging me.
The bell rang then. Mr. Bay stood up to watch the room.
I slipped away before he asked me something else. I wasn’t sure why he had so many questions about food. It was weird.
But I was nice and full from the second taco. If my mom didn’t go to the grocery today to buy ramen, I wouldn’t have dinner.
Maybe I should’ve asked Principle Bay how to make ramen in the microwave. I wasn’t a good reader, and I was afraid to ask my mom for help. When my dad was home, he usually made me eggs. I wished he were around more. He at least fixed me food.
I went to my seat.
“You smell funny.” Matilda giggled and pointed at me. “What’s on your shirt” She scrunched up her face.
“Just grease from my taco.” I peered at my top.
“That’s gross.” Matilda thought everything was gross.
“So?”
“So you should tell your mom to wash it. My mom has a stain stick.”
“What’s a stain stick?’
“Something you rub on the stain, so it comes out. I bet your mom knows what it is. She should buy it. My mom said it’s a lifesaver.”
“Does your mom wash your clothes?” I asked, rubbing my tummy. It hurt a little.